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The Knock on the door
The simplicity of this beachside home continues indoors, after one enters through a sunken doorway/mini lift into the main living room. A little hand-painted sign reads: "Leave your hat at the door". The polished, borl-wood floors are cool to the touch. The walls are painted cream and furniture pieces add serene, marine hues to the naturescape dcor. A large, sleekly molded hover-sofa faces the panoramic window ahead, fitted with a detachable cushion. A button on one side identifies it as convertible, and a puff-cot is hiding underneath. A small, kriin-wood desk is hanging open beside the window, cluttered with unfinished paintings. A couple yellow and blue form-chairs add seating, and a driftwood coffee table centers the space over a faded, green reed rug. Two narrow archways off either end of the living room lead to identical sleeping quarters and small, 3-piece fresher units. Behind the entrance is the quaint little kitchen, equipped with high end appliances (sonic dishwasher, caf distiller, conservator, nanowave stove), sleek white cabinetry and countertops resembling sea glass. Around the back corner of the kitchen is a short hallway, capped in a larger bedroom suite and also housing a small storage closet, equipped with games and junk. The 'master' suite retains the same soothing theme as the rest of the home. Soft, woodwind instrumentation plays on cue as one crosses the threshold. The bedroom houses one modest-sized relaxa-bed, but judging from the discrepancy in the floor's weathering and discoloration, a much larger piece used to dominate that space. Kriin-wood side tables stand on three legs along either side of the bed, one of them supporting a salt crystal lamp. Built-in shelving accommodates little seashore treasures, baubles, and photo-spheres that flicker running slideshows of family albums. Soft, gray-blue bedding invites one to snug in for a nap. A live, gnarl-wooded plant grows up from and orange pot beneath the porthole window with dark, spiny foliage and bright, yellow flowers. The adjoined fresher is spacious, luxurious in clean, simple lines and fresh, white amenities - like the free-standing soaker tub, lined with incensed candles. A plastic curtain encircles a sunken portion of the floor, where a shower head rains down from the ceiling. There is a small doorway at the far end, leading down a steep flight of stairs to the golden sands below. The smear of sunset over the horizon grows dull, this hour. Along the beach, little beacons of light flicker in the deepening dark, signs of parties soon to begin as the collective smoke trails unite in the breeze. The firepit in front of the Aderanne residence is abandoned this evening, charred remains of prior days' blowouts are cold and silent. They are kind, to keep their secrets. Noise is afoot elsewhere, however, as the massive, panoramic window facing the shore illuminates an idyllic scene indoors. Child's laughter, clink of glassware, and an apparently lively game of chess nearing a vicious end. Peaceful chaos. During the long route here from the spaceport, his black clothed visage, light hat, cassock, boots and gloves has drawn many the stare. Some even recognizing him from days gone by and moving to clear away lest a bounty hunter or the very hand of the Force move to strike him down. Finally when he arrives at his destination, he follows the normal path up, and presses the ringer. The electronic oscillator rapidly buzzes back and forth upon command, announcing his presence. It takes a few tries, but the buzz does pierce through the cheering permeating the home. In unison, all four women quiet and turn from their activities to stare in wonderment at the door. "I didn't even know it /had/ an oscillator," Raina Aderanne, still ornery at 60 as she was 20, breaks the silence with a wry look directed toward her daughter. Ambrosia parries with a withering scowl from over her shoulder, hands frozen in the cabinetry. Liora sits politely still, across from her new grandmother at the chess board while Gabi darts up from the floor and slaps bare feet at record speed towards the door. Ambrosia intercepts her there with a catch to the arm. "Wait," she instructs softly and ushers the preteen behind her before peering through the lens. Her lips mouth something inaudible, but it must be a word Gabi's familiar with and she scurries back towards the rest of the family with a conspiratorial grin. The door opens. "Madam Ambassador," Zeak says as he tries to discern if he has come at a bad time, or a horrific time. There is never a good time for Zeak Oppenhiemer to drop by after all. "Have I come at a bad time? If so, I could come back . . ." "Mr. Oppenheimer," To call the opening view cluttered would be something of an understatement. Towels still drape where they were last deposited. Bits of toys are scattered on the floor, some more suited for very young children. Plates of half-finished food adorn the countertops, and the pots it was cooked in are still nestled on the stove. Smells vaguely of fish.... "What a delightful /surprise/." A waft of herbs and honey breathe forth, as the woman answering the door slowly morphs from her expression from that of a startled homemaker caught off guard to that of a seasoned diplomat...also caught off guard. There's not much difference, but rather than shooing him out, she steps aside and gives him room to enter. "Please watch your step. There's um..." She darts further inside, toeing some of the toys and things aside towards a small, open closet. "Tea?" "That would be appreciated, and thank you for the warning," Oppenhiemer replies as he steps into the space and follows. A glance to the toys brings up a few fond memories, and of course memories of trying to instill Oppenhiemer style self discipline in his kids - kids which perhaps take too much after their mother at times. "Normally I'd have sent a message first, but I fear my predicament places me on a tight time line, and requires more than the usual amount of discretion." Discretion. Raina and Liora (a petite, blonde teen/20-something bearing striking resemblance to Ambro) take the hint and vacate their seats in favor of gathering up towels and shoes and shoving things down their hallway. While Raina wears a confused smile, Liora's expression is notably more suspicious, flighty even. Gabi, on the other hand, either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She pads back to the threshold and stares at their houseguest, sizing up his choice in wardrobe. "Of course," Ambrosia tight-lips in response and performs a final routine of light-footed kicks and sweeps, stashing the majority of the crap under the scarce bits of furniture. The closet fails to close, however, jammed by a raggedy box labeled 'donations' with other, larger letters scribbled out beneath. "Gabi, tea." She orders, not requests, and /that/ the girl does heed. Frowning, the little brunette shuffles over to the pot and scrounges for a clean mug. "We just needed some time away, so...hope it wasn't much trouble tracking me down? I'm sure Intel knew well enough what hole it was I scurried into." "One of my sources was able to point me in the right direction," Oppemhiemer replies, failing to offer that the source was with the OOAG and charged with being available to the Corellian Engineering Corporation should they ever decide to exercise their rights. "And I do apologize again, but it seems Mr. Rendolen was not as careful as he could have been and it has caused quite a stir. In addition to moving the transaction to a location I don't have access, Lord Thel tells me he believes he has a leak -- I've come because I need to shore up my cover before he pays me any detailed attention." Having left her diplo hat at the door, as the sign clearly warns, Ambrosia mutters something akin to "fsking Rendolen," and rubs absently at her jaw while looking past Zeak to her legitimate daughter as the kid manages to pour most of the tea into the mug and only a little onto the glass counter. This house was obviously designed for adults only. "Let's---" Four, blue eyes have returned from the towel stashing and now stare openly at them from that hallway, left of the living area. "Mom, why don't you show Liora your shell collection? I know you've had years to stockpile, there must be some rather interesting stories behind them, yes?" Liora narrows her eyes, glaring at her biological incubator with the intensity of Imperial upbringing. Raina blinks her focus off Zeak and lifts her brows into an 'oh yeah!' expression of joyous enlightenment, with innocence of senile bliss. Taking Liora by the wrist gently, she leads her back into isolation. Satisfied, Ambrosia takes the tea from Gabi before pointing down the same hallway. "Shower." Oppenhiemer watches the domestic chaos with a note of apprehension. Too many ears is his only thought. If only he had a secondary contact he could rely on. Gabi opens her mouth to object but turns her mind to the possibility of future gain from this situation. She furrows her brows at Zeak, then stands on tiptoe to whisper not so secretly to her mother "If he stays for breakfast, can we make Gamby cakes?" Ambrosia also looks a mite ill, folding her arms protectively about her waist and jerking her head towards the hall. "There aren't going to be any cakes. Go shower, then rescue your sister from your grandmother. But stay in bed." Extending a hand abruptly to Zeak, she offers the tea belatedly and fidgets her skirt with the other. Groaning, Gabi rolls her eyes up to meet the stranger's briefly with a "Nice to meet you, enjoy your tea," and then thunders down the hall before she can get a swat on the butt. Oppenhiemer accepts the tea with a, "thank you," before watching the party disappear. He continues to wait, quietly - this is the Ambassador's house, she'll set the tone of what she is comfortable with her family hearing. Ambrosia waits in silence, head tipped askew, until she hears a door slam. Jaw tense, she soundlessly pads on bare feet into the living area and peers down the hall for inspection. Good. Motioning for him to join, she reaches to a little unit on the wall above the art desk and taps a little touch screen. Music begins to clog the airwaves, thwarting any would-be eavesdroppers. "Okay," she sighs and drops onto one end of the couch to the tune of tinkling seashell adornments. "Explain." "Apparently Mr. Rendolen boarded the ship from Trandoshia to Nar Shadaa and unsuccessfully tried to instigate some sort of sabotage. While he managed to escape, he was identified. Lord Thel has rightfully surmised that Mr. Rendolen knew where to be, and is trying to figure out HOW he knew. When we talked via the holonet - to say Lord Thel was vexed would be an understatement." Oppenhiemer begins as he relates his story. His tone has the quality of a report, but also a note of concern, perhaps for his well being or for those who rely on him. "Anyways, when the shipment made it to Nar Shadaa, the agent in charge asked the Falleen lord who was to broker the deal to place a bounty on Mr. Rendolen. When Lorda Gejalli tried to renegotiate the terms to reflect this new development, the Imperials withdrew and moved the exchange to the province of another Hutt family." Zeak pauses to take a sip of the tea before continuing, "Regrettably I don't have access to the new details." Ambrosia stands after a moment of silence in the wake of Zeak's relay. "Excuse me," she says softly, stone-faced, and wanders off into the hall behind the kitchen, disappearing into the darkness there. Over the din of the music clattering all aroung (quite a nice dancing beat, all told) one *might* hear a muffled scream of obscenities. Stiffly, the off-duty ambassador lowers the pillow from her face but retains a vice-like grip for a few heartbeats longer until she's exhaled all of her long, thin, calming sigh. It drops to the floor and she combs quick fingers through her hair before daring to return to present company. When she returns, Zeak is just finishing another sip of tea. It is then that he adds something that perhaps he should have added before, "I do have a plan, but I'll need help, lots of help . . ." Perching on the edge of the couch, just in case, Ambrosia folds both hands over a crossed knee. "Do tell." It comes out sounding a bit like a challenge more than an understanding invitation. Catching her own edgy tone, she ducks her eyes and tucks the braid behind her ear. "I apologize. You can't be to blame for Agent Rendolen's ... method. Any way we can find to salvage the mission would be an improvement, I'm sure." "I took a gamble, and offered to play Lord Thel's agent to obscure the Empire's involvement," Oppenhiemer slowly begins. His posture is erect and militaristic, like an officer on the bridge of a Star Destroyer reporting in to his Moff. "He took me up on the offer. I am supposed to be convincing you that mines owned by Trigdale Metalurgy are the ultimate destination for the Wookiees. Trigdale is a large and powerful company inside the Corporate Sector, with interests in many projects including the mining hyperbarides which are in large part used in the construction of turbolasers for Imperial projects. They are far from innocent, and do use forced labor, but to be clear they are not involved in this. If squadrons of X-wings were to begin hit and fade strikes against some of their operations, I could sell that to Lord Thel as evidence that you do not know of his involvement." "And he trusts you to feed me this false information, whole-heartedly, does he?" Ambrosia ponders and stands again. "No wires...hasn't turned you into a walking incendiary device?" She steps closer, flicking her eyes this way and that over his clothing. "I'm simply to whisper in all the right ears to advise high command that we send a few squadrons to blow somebody else's operation into the dirt and hope that Thel takes the bait... that Trigdale Metalurgy /isn't/ bait, for us?" "I'd be fairly open about your source's situation," Oppenhiemer replies. "There are some ways we could mitigate the risk to Republic personnel, and long term ways we could leverage this which I'd be happy to discuss, but in the end Ambassador, this is much like paying pirates to steal relief supplies for political purposes, this is the dirty end of our business." A little curl forms on the ambassador's upper lip. "I didn't pay them to steal and slow the process. I paid them to push-aid-through. Before Thel began handing it out." Keeping her voice low, Ambrosia backs off a touch and circles around the other side of the couch to reach over the counter and inspect tea pot contents. If only it were booze... "Flyboys being what they are, I imagine StarOps won't be entirely opposed to the notion of lording this over the Intelligence Divsion's head: they swoop in to pick up after Intel's mess and reset the mission course towards possible victory. Everybody's happy, for a time. Thel believes we are off the scent, a handful of force laborers may feel vindicated as their world explodes around them, and, most importantly, you and your family keep your heads." Sniffing, she tips the pot over and pours a last few dribbles into an abandoned mug. "I'll drink to that." "I do appreciate it," Zeak replies before raising his cup to his lips. He stops short of sipping again however and lowers it again, "There are some other victories we could leverage out of this, perhaps even huge ones, if you are interested . . ." "I--" Ambrosia pauses to slurp and listen sharply as there's a brief commotion down the 'children’s' hall. "I swear, if Lord Thel DID get his hands on her, he'd be at a loss as much as I..." She mutters and swishes down the hall to thump on a section of wall. "BED, I said!" There's a muffled response, then silence. Mostly. Looking exasperated, she returns to the couch and curls up with feet tucked beneath. "I suppose I should be grateful he only left me one to raise in his absence. My apologies again. I believe you mentioned leverage..." "If the Republic were willing to be very public about the strikes, denouncing the horrors of slavery, and if the Corellian Engineering Corporation would be willing to exercise its rights and send someone to represent it on the Direx, someone with an appropriately political bent that could also speak for the Republic in a limited capacity," Zeak begins, talking around a suggestion that Ambrosia might be interested in the job, "I believe that over the period of a year or two we could potentially outlaw slavery in the Authority." "That is interesting." Not sounding entirely convinced of its feasibility, Ambrosia nestles back onto one elbow and sets her mug to the floor. "If CEC were to denounce the barbaric practice, you think the other influential corporations that make the Authority go 'round would follow suit? I imagine that'd put quite the smile on Mother's face." "Well, CEC taking an active role would be important because it would be a close vote." Oppenhiemer replies in a bland fashion, too bland to be discussing such weighty topics. "But the push would actually be the Republic government hurting the holdouts. With the right pressure, I think we could move slaves from being the property of individuals to the Corporate Sector Authority itself, and then from being slaves to being free with some sort of debt to reflect their value. They could then buy their own complete freedom over time, and no doubt charities would step in to help. It won't be quick, but I am confident it can be done." Ambrosia listens intently, eyes all but glazing over as she rarely bothers to blink. She seems...concerned. "We?" She questions in hushed fashion. "Where stands your role in this, if I decide to follow your advisement and pursue a position on the Direx board, or failing that, secure a rep from CEC in my pocket? How would the Empire feel, watching the CSA turn slowly to follow the Republic's ideology?" Zeak takes a sip as he considers the question. "The Authority doesn't follow Imperial ideology now," Zeak says, calm, even and measured. "So long as the Authority makes money and provides resources they will happily turn a blind eye, just like they do now. We'll accomplish this goal by changing the costs of slave ownership; it will be pure economics and in the end the Empire will tacitly support it. As for my role, by the time this is in full swing, I believe some other pieces will have moved into place, and I'll be on the Direx board in my own right." "Maybe..." Ambrosia murmurs, never taking her eyes off the font of information that is Zeak. The wheels are in motion there, behind her stare, contemplating the probabilities. "At the very least, we'll have blown Trigdale's mining op sky high. Possibly. If that 'training exercise' can be approved." Burying her face for a moment into her mug, she samples more of the tea. "Securing a position on the Direx has been a lofty goal of a few acquaintances over the years...I do wonder if some of them are still there." "If it can't be done there are other options," Oppenhiemer continues as he swirls the liquid in his cup. "We could borrow some fighters, or borrow and repaint some of the ones that have drifted into private circulation. So are you interested?" "Could be." Tensing her jaw, Ambrosia unfolds from her nest in the couch and paces over to the audio panel on the wall. She turns the music down. "Needs thinking over a little more than tea. I confess I'm not incredibly confident in my ability to sway any votes, right now. The rumors, the newscasts, my own kid - the younger - punched a senator's son in the nose at school just the other day over it all...stupid." Shaking her head, she presses a hand to her lips and takes a deep breath through her nose. "It'd be a fight, and before I enter that ring, I need to make sure my family has the support it needs. I'm sure you can understand that." "You wouldn't have to sway votes for some time, just point out the obvious - that slavery has become bad for business," Oppenhiemer replies as he raises his left eyebrow ever so slightly. "As to your family, what would you need?" "Time, Mr. Oppenheimer." Tilting her head curiously at him, Ambrosia circles back around. "Stability. I hit the ground running when I was released from medbay, dragging them along behind. I don't know that she was ready, and now that Liora is out of custody and with me, I've got to...do something for her. Help her feel at ease here. 'Here' being everything she was taught to despise. That's why I ditched the base. Got us an apartment in the gardens...first day on unpacking boxes I find a bug in the damn caf machine. So, I made some 'interesting' modifications to that and flew here. Smuggled myself here, actually, for some peace. Solitude. Mr Andromidas was most obliging, in that." Gesturing at the hall, she flaps her arms into a hapless shrug. "I know it's all so incredibly petty, compared to the risks you're weighing against your own, just by being here, and it's obvious I won't be returning to Caspar anytime soon, so ...yes. With the understanding that I will be taking very small steps in this and cautious in my recommendations." "Madam Ambassador," Oppenhiemer replies, "small is all we need now. If we are too fast, they'll notice. This sort of a change is more like cooking lobster, we have to slowly move the temperature until one day Lobster Vadim wakes up to find things are boiling and his only out is our goal." He pauses, grimacing weighing if he should even say more before he continues, "There is another thing - in order to solidify my cover I'll need to create some financial chaos. While I can do that myself, using more money means more chaos, and it means more profit for the investors. I know you spent some of family savings to help Caspar - I'd be happy to have you as an investor if you like. I know you likely don't have the amount of money Johanna and I will be putting in, and there are real risks, but I wanted to extend the offer if you'd like to buy in." Ambrosia's eyes narrow into a skeptic's glare who suspects she's about to hear something she'd rather not. Her arms fold crossly over her midsection and she leans on one hip. "Define 'Chaos'." "We're going to short Trigdale mining to the tune of 40 billion credits." Oppenhiemer replies as if he were talking about the price of a stim-caff at a stand around the corner. "If we work on a 30% margin, we might be able to turn that into 120 billion in less than two month's time. It will make sure people are completely unsure about what is going on and all staring at me as this goes down. The speculation about my involvement in Republic politics will last for months, as will the speculation on why the Empire isn't killing me. Nothing like a completely unsolvable mystery with a face value of 80 billion credits to keep the media hopping." Numbers that high make it difficult for Ambrosia to retain a stern demeanor. Extremely difficult. Eyes blinking widely, she brushes the shelly braid back over her ear and turns her head into one palm while the other maintains its grip on her hip. "40...How..." No, no...that's not the right question. "What? What precisely do you intend we invest in, Mr. Oppenhiemer, to grow that money?" "Oh, my apologies, that is what Johanna and I are putting up." Oppenhiemer replies, something of a smirk forming on his lips as he speaks and the idea of what he implied sets in. "It is adequate for the chaos and the smoke screen. If you'd like to add to that amount, it would likely double or triple over the course of two months -- although there are risks. Do you know what I mean when I say we will be shorting Trigdale?" "I was under the impression some sly, monetary theft was in order, but suppose that was 'simple' of me. Interrupting their labor supply or interfering with production would also generate frustration and chaos, but..." The figment of innumerable credit chits still dancing around her brain, the more financially limited, and thereby ignorant, ambassador sits down. "You are putting 40 billion directly IN to something, which would put them in a quandry. Take pity on me and speak in plainer terms. It's late." "No it isn't your every day sort of financial operation. Johanna and I will put the 40 billion in an escrow account. We will then borrow something like 160 billion in shares of Trigdale from investment firms and sell them on the open market, depositing the proceeds in that account." Oppenhiemer explains. "So now the account will have 200 billion in it, and we will have promised to return the shares of Trigdale to their rightful owner a couple of months later. Once the X-wings start blowing things up, Trigdale's stock will drop, hopefully plummet. We'll repurchase the shares at the bottom, when they are much cheaper. The firms will get their shares back, and we'll pocket the difference. Of course if the stock doesn't go down, we can lose money. I know you don't have billions to put into something like this, but if you'd like your money to ride with ours, we'd be happy to help you pad the retirement account." It's Ambrosia's turn to smirk. "I should add an extra ounce of encouragement to our StarOps division to take exemplary aim, hm?" Letting her gaze wander to the scattered bits of junk cluttering the space beneath the simple furniture, she smiles. "I certainly don’t have billions to add to the pot, nor millions, nor..." A sigh. "Give me time to do some math and calculate how much more we can afford to lose, and I'll arrange for a funds transfer." "You know if the Corellian Engineering Corporation were to ask you to represent their interests, that could be far more lucrative than traditional government service," Oppenhiemer replies as he swirls the last bit of tea around in his cup. "Even if you didn't take all the customary bribes and such, there would be perks, side deals, and of course inside information you could ethically use to make money on the open market." Ambrosia chuckles. "If the motivational force guiding me to choose a career was money, I might have remained a whore." Twitching her brows, she gets her restless feet again and picks up a driftwood stick reclaimed from the beach. "Fortunately, it's not. Getting by with the little we do, by some standards, still far surpasses most of the citizenry my endeavors serve." Her left hand takes hold of the stick, loosely, and begins to twirl it between fingers, slowly, awkwardly, as though the digits haven't quite remembered the extent of their abilities. "I DO, however, like the notion of being able to slap some sense into the slaving industry, and also fund a few pathways to freedom with any profits that might be had. It's been a long time since I've had any professional interaction with Corellian locals. I'm not sure CEC would view me as an ideal candidate to represent their interests...but the possibility intrigues me." "Currently, no one serves their interests," Oppenhiemer replies as he stares at his tea and makes a mental note to learn more about the Ambassador's background. "CEC sees itself as too good to have interests. You have to be better than no one." "Ah," The stick twirls ponderously ever on, the sluggish fingers having found their rhythm. "And so it was, that the mountain became a vale." The stick slips, but she snatches it with her other hand before it can endanger the coffee table. Repurposing it for a cane, she leans her palm o'er the top and goes still. "Or remains a mountain, if CEC is content with no one - 'no one' to pay, 'no one' to risk trust's failures for." Shrugging, she taps the stick once against the reed rug. "I'll think about it. I can't say I ever envisioned myself as having a voice in Direx, but maybe it's time for a change." "Well worst case scenario, they continue to buy materials and parts from their current suppliers, you can only help them." Zeak replies. "Offer to do it for a percentage of what you earn them. If you don't make them money, they don't owe you money." Business, sales...not so far a cry from what she presently does, but it conjures images of stuffy suits and greasy smiles all the same. Ambrosia's forehead wrinkles with a mild wince. "I know, it doesn't sound complicated at all. That fact that it makes me nervous is admittedly emb---" LOUD. That is the volume of the shrill scream that pierces the air from down the hall. It's immediately followed by more confused, adult voices and the rapid thudding of little feet down the hallway to the tune of "MOMMA!" Momma bear is alarmingly already prepared for battle, having procured a palm pistol from somewhere between the couch cushions at the first note of trouble, but holds it harmlessly out of the way when Gabi comes hurtling into her dropping lap. "They were eating me..." the girl sobs, in a hiccupping, terrified manner suited more to children half her age. Zeak raises his left brow but otherwise remains silent as the exchange, presumably something about an imaginary monster, begins to unfold. If he could just back into a shadow a disappear for a moment he would, it would be easier. It does make a good moment to take a sip from his cup. Ambrosia glances to Zeak with an apologetic frown whilst enfolding her daughter into the tight confines of a restrictive hug. Seems pretty routine, given the fluidity with which she does so, cradling the preteen in a way that pins the girl's arms harmlessly against her own chest. "Gabi, they're gone now," she whispers, tucking Gabi's head beneath her chin. "But they caught me this time..." *Hiccup* Shaking in genuine terror, the little tomboy is but a shell of her formerly tough self. "It hurts so bad..." Ambrosia's own shoulders and arms are set a-trembling, but it isn't fear that yearns to explode. Shifting her weight around a little more comfortably, she strokes one hand through Gabi's rat nest of hair. "Nek hounds," she offers as explanation. "Pets of those whom you've been enlisted to serve. They chase her still...but it'll just be a moment." Clearing her throat, Ambrosia produces a softer few notes, soothing the air with the beginnings of a siren's song. Silver tongue, indeed, as it lilts a Sarian lullaby. Yet another gift of Hutt space is Zeak's thought as he quietly waits and listens. He quietly places the cup down and waits until he gets Ambrosia's glance. It is then that he gestures to the door and whispers ever so quietly, "Perhaps I should go?" The crooning ambassador rolls her eyes and nods, pausing her rocking to at least walk the man to the door. Hefting a 60 lb child is not as effortless a feat as one still in diapers, but she manages. Barely. Atrophied muscles summon all of their regenerated strength and she scoops Gabi up to one cybernetic knee, then grunts to her feet and repositions Gabi's cling to a hip. She's broken a sweat, but there's a smile to soften her strained expression. Her song tapers off in favor of using 'real' words as she takes one heavy step towards the kitchen/door. "As always, I appreciate your willingness to share information, Mr. Oppenhiemer. I'll let you know soon enough what my decision is regarding today's talking points...and hope that /if/ you should come across any updates regarding 'Bonadan Labor Solutions' relocation, you'll feel the urge to pass it along. As will I forward your recommendation of target to Command." Gabi still whimpers, but its a quiet sound, muffled by Ambrosia's hair. Speaking might only wake Gabi, thus Zeak merely nods and quietly makes his way to the door and world beyond.